


year by year, month by month, day by day, thought by thought

by The_Doom_Dahlia



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Sign Language, F/F, Female Friendship, Leonard Cohen - Freeform, Poisoning, Recovery, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, au where ethel gets help after trying to kill herself and gets better, ben and dilton weren't major characters in canon, but they were major in ethel's heart, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 04:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Doom_Dahlia/pseuds/The_Doom_Dahlia
Summary: almost dying changes a person, it turns out.orethel gets better, slowly but surelyoran attempt to fix what canon's broken(title from the song 'steer your way' by Leonard Cohen)





	year by year, month by month, day by day, thought by thought

**Author's Note:**

> i just want ethel to be okay

Ethel Ingrid Muggs was a lot of things to a lot of people: a background character to her classmates, a gold star of a daughter to her parents, a decent teacher to the people she tutored. Her oma saw her as a saint, and Dilton and Ben saw her as a queen. To herself, she was too tall and a bit gawky, but sturdy. Dependable. Good. Stable, physically and mentally.

At least that’s what she thought until she woke up in a hospital, bleary-eyed and sick, having taken poison all for the want of a game.

“I messed up really bad, didn’t I.” she wrote on a notepad, looking up at Jughead.

“Yeah, Ethel. You fucked up.” he said, his voice cold. He had rings around his eyes, clearly having not slept in a while. “But you’ll be fine. They gave you the antidote.”

She reached up towards him, only to feel the cold metal of a brace against her wrist. Her gaze focused on the silver wrapping, and then turned to Jughead for answers.

“Suicide watch. Your parents’ll be here any minute.” he explained. There was anger there, a thick undercurrent. “I suppose you’re going to tell me not to tell anyone about this stupid fucking game.”

She shook her head. The surprise in his gaze would have confused her if she wasn’t so focused on writing. The words felt heavy as sap in her throat, like the sticky maple that had helped to start the strange journey she’d taken to this bed, and she was silent. She swallowed. “I want,” she wrote, and swallowed again. Her throat felt dry and it was hard to work beyound the sting, but she forced herself to. “I want you to help me tell them.” A deep breath rattled her lungs. “I did really bad, Jughead. But I want to make things right. For Ben, for Dilton, and for myself.”

There seemed to be twinges of sympathy in his eyes, and he nodded. “Alright. I’ll help.”

Ethel nodded, and the two sat in silence for a bit. Finally, she tapped the metal cuff on the side of the bed to get his attention and wrote “I’m sorry for kissing you.”

Jughead didn’t respond for a moment, staring down a crack in the tile. “I’m not,” he started, sighing. “I’m not gonna say it’s okay. It’s not. But you were obviously not in a good mental place, so I’m not gonna put all the blame on you. Just,” he stopped again. “Just never do that again. Okay?”

She nodded. There was a twinge in her heart that echoed through her ribs, and she longed to reach out and take his hand. Not because it was him, but because it was someone who was there and who wanted something more than her crown or her devotion. But she didn’t. She kept her hand atop the thin bedsheets until her mother and father came in to embrace her and try to find understanding through her.

* * *

Ethel returned to the school, in a haze of whispers and angry stares, three weeks later. Her vocal chords, stronger now but still devoid of speech, made her grateful for the ASL lessons she’d taken in elementary school. Therapy was twice a week and Doctor Silberkleit was gentle with her once he knew the facts of her story. He didn’t believe in the Gargoyle King and, slowly, she’d begun to doubt his existence too. Medications were tested, and some kept as a steady regiment. She felt better. Barely so, but still.

She couldn’t find it in her heart to blame anyone when they turned away from her and she didn’t weep for herself when she heard some people murmuring over lunch that they thought she’d caused the deaths of her two closest friends, the knights to her queen. She only cried twice in those first few weeks away from the hospital.

The first was when she went to the graveyard. She’d asked her father to take her, wanting a chance to mourn her friends properly since she’d been barred from their funerals by her own mental anguish. She’d picked flowers carefully, irises, and had managed to keep herself together until they were placed on the soft grass in front of the headstones. She’d mouthed the inscriptions to herself, one after the other.

“Benjamin Button, our Sunday’s child, given over to God. Dilton Doiley, beloved son. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing - Helen Keller.”

She hadn’t even noticed her own tears until her father, cooing her name in sympathy, took her into his arms. It was only upon realizing their presence that she broke, weeping soundlessly in the cool afternoon air, mourning the loss of the only two people who’d understood the thrawl of the King as well as she did.

The second was in the Riverdale library. She had just taken her medication, the little green pills for her anxiety, and was buried in a copy of Trixie Belden when she heard the creak of a chair pulling out in front of her. She looked up to see Cheryl Blossom, still in her Vixens uniform, looking at her with something that resembled pity. Worry spiked in her chest and she swallowed, trying to find words.

“Save it, Holland.” Cheryl told her bluntly. “I’m not here to give you shit.”

The tension in her shoulders eased as confusion bubbled up. 

Cheryl took a deep breath, scratching gently across the mahogany surface of the desk that separated them. “Look, I know about the whole-” she paused, waving a hand in a circle in an attempt to connect the dots of what she wanted to say. “The whole suicide thing.” she said weakly. “It happened with my dad, and it almost happened with me.” she confessed, ignoring the surprise in the other redhead’s eyes. “I’m just trying to say that I’m here for you if you want to talk about it or whatever.” she spat, folding her arms. It was clearly hard for her to talk about it.

Ethel found the tears coming easy, and she used the heel of her hand to wipe away crystalline wetness before holding out her hand to Cheryl. She mouthed a ‘thank you’, and felt a smile creep slowly onto her lips when the more popular girl took her hand and squeezed tight.

They walked home together that day, and Ethel took more joy than she’d known in weeks in teaching Cheryl how to fingerspell over the journey.

* * *

When it became clear that Ethel would never speak again, her vocal chords too damaged to function as they once did, she felt only relief that she was still alive. Speech was something she could give up, because she could still sign and write. Her voice could go, but her life couldn’t. 

Most of the school still shunned her too, but that was bearable. It wasn’t her place to force them to forgive her. It’d come in time, if it came at all. Whispers and the occasional hateful stare or key scratch across the pale blue surface of her locker could be handled. Loneliness, however, was a far more overwhelming beast.

She had, however, gotten some friends. Cheryl Blossom, while prone to teasing her, still walked with her back home almost every day. Sometimes she brought Toni along, and she and Ethel got along like a house on fire. The poke of Converse into her sides as she hefted the smaller girl on her back became almost comforting. Jughead and Betty too had begun to let her in. After all, she knew the most about the Gargoyle King and her expertise was valuable. If their conversations swung to music or Jughead’s novel and they found themselves even laughing in the cozy center of the Muggs’ living room, it was no one’s business but theirs.

Ethel, however, wanted to extend an olive branch to one more person.

Hermione Lodge looked up at her in confusion when she came, a shopping bag dangling from her shoulder. “What do you want, Ethel?”

“Is Veronica home?” she signed, hands moving quickly.

Hermione winced a little. “Yes but I don’t think she wants to see anyone. She’s going through a lot, especially with what happened to Archie.”

Ethel nodded and signed “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

The mother sighed. “Alright. I’ll get her.” she said, and went into the house. 

The redhead could hear a yell of something in Spanish, and then a muffled explanation. The door opened soon after, slowly. Veronica stood, dressed down, her hair mussed and her eyes weary. “What do you want.” she said, the words coming out more as a growl than a question.

Ethel held out the bag to Veronica in silence.

She took it, opening it slowly as though she were afraid of the contents. Blinking in surprise, she removed the stuffed dog from the bag. It was one of those all white ones, made to be covered in autographs. This one only had one, from Ethel herself: ‘i’m sorry for blaming you for what your dad did. if you can’t forgive me, i understand.’.

There was silence, then a little bit of laughter. Veronica looked the stuffed dog over, laughing to herself at the absurdity of it all. When she calmed down, she looked up at Ethel in silence. Finally, she reached up and patted her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

The two embraced, holding onto one another tightly. Ethel spent the evening with the Lodges that night, returning home the next day with joy in her heart and a few learned phrases of Spanish sign language. It felt like the pieces were finally falling into place.

* * *

Three weeks after the Farm had fled from Riverdale, separating mother from daughter as Polly Cooper left with them, Evelyn Evernever returned to school. She’d been taken into police custody after Edgar, her father, had been arrested after a failed attempt at arson on his own compound. It turned out that Fresh-Aide, while seizure-and-hallucination inducing, made a wonderful foil to an emerging inferno. Having been bailed out by his disciples, he’d fled with the Farm and left Evelyn behind to be placed in foster care.

Evelyn, lashing out at everyone and everything, was given a ‘Support Buddy’ to help her get used to her new life. She hadn’t been pleased to see Ethel, silent and soft-eyed, but figured it was a better option than anyone else.

At first, she’d tried to use her father’s tactics on the other girl. Manipulation and overhyping, trying to build herself up into something greater than she was. When that didn’t work, she’d begun to lash out. With no Fresh-Aide to help her, she’d used words to try and injure. It failed too, leaving her in just as much silence as her ‘Buddy’.

Despite everything though, Ethel hadn’t stopped trying to help her. She’d acted as tutor to catch Evelyn up on all the school she’d missed, a silent ear to her issues (when she’d been willing to talk about them), and an ever vigilant guide to steer her away from the hardened gazes of the students around her. No amount of rejection would break her, and Evelyn didn’t understand it.

She asked about it two months into their begrudging partnership. Ethel had invited her over to work on homework, and Leonard Cohen rasped about treaties from the record player atop her nightstand. Evelyn, having finished her math, stared down at the numbers in quiet contemplation before speaking. “Why are you so fucking nice to me?”

Ethel looked at her, tilting her head.

“I mean,” she started. “My family’s partially why you’re like this.” she whispered, looking over to her and gesturing to her throat and head. “My dad and all the things he did. All the things I did.” she said. “Why don’t you hate me?”

Ethel got out her pen and paper and began writing. She was still working on teaching Evelyn ASL, so this was the easiest way to communicate. She wrote for a moment, then handed the pad of paper to her and went back to her book while Evelyn read the words out loud.

“I once blamed someone I liked very much for what their father did to my family. It was a mistake I still regret, but it taught me something very important: the things our parents do don’t define us. You’re not your father.”

Evelyn read the last sentence again and again in silence, then put the pad of paper down. She didn’t cry, although she wanted to. Instead, she reached over and took Ethel’s hand gently in her own, intertwining their fingers. “Thank you, Ethel.” she said quietly.

Ethel looked over to her, her hair catching the light in a way that almost made it look like a halo, and smiled.

The rest of the night was spent in silence, save for the music of the record player and the strangely fast thumping of Evelyn’s heart.

* * *

Their detractors, the people who believed them to still be monsters, said they were made for each other.

As Ethel settled in beside her love in the library, their signed conversation lasping into the comfortable silence that ruled their romance, she took her hand and squeezed it. Her hands still shook, and nightmares sometimes jabbed at the inside of her skull with the sharpened screams of her long lost friends and the glowing gaze of a gargoyle. People still looked at her like she was some great beast, a creature of cold darkness.

But things were better. She had therapy, the doctor praising her progress. She had family, her father and her sharing recovery tips over hot cocoa after dinners. She had friends, genuine ones who saw her as a human and not as a queen or as the vessel for a god. And she had Evelyn, their relationship imperfect but good. Things would never be the same, she knew that.

But, she thought as she rested her head against the other girl’s shoulder and began reading to herself, maybe that wasn’t an entirely bad thing.


End file.
